Walking With the Dead

Three days later, the world came to an end. Again.

Even now, after everything was over, Emma couldn’t make any sense of it.

Walkers in the barn. Twenty-plus of them. All this time the walkers had been there, a mere fifty yards from where they set up camp. From where they slept. It made Emma’s skin crawl and her stomach churn to think of how dangerous the whole situation had been.

But worst of all, they finally found Sophia. She wasn’t holed up in some house in the suburbs, nor was she wandering through the forest, alone and hungry. All this time she’d been in the barn, dead. No, not dead. Undead. A walker. A monster.

Emma had joined in on the massacre that ended the false lives of the walkers that had been housed in the barn. Shane had stuffed a shotgun in her hands, and Emma aimed and fired. I wasn’t forced to fight, Emma recollected after the massacre had occurred. I chose to. I could have put down the gun, but I didn’t. I wanted to kill those walkers just like everyone else. I needed to.

When Emma closed her eyes she could still hear Carol’s mournful wail as the shell of Sophia emerged from the barn, her movements jerky and a guttural growl falling from her dark lips. Emma lowered her shotgun at that point. She hadn’t been able to shoot. All logic told her that the creature before her was not Sophia, that the real Sophia was gone and this was a shadow of her formal self. But still, Emma couldn’t shoot.

At that moment, Emma felt cold and alone.

A final gunshot tore through the air, and the search for Sophia came to an official end.

After that everyone fell into numb, silent work. They were like a team of worker ants; everyone had a job to do and no one deviated from it until it was over. Emma spent her time digging graves.

She worked until her hands split open into blisters, and she had to accept that she couldn’t work anymore. It was odd, even though she saw the blisters on her palms, she couldn’t feel the pain. Emma retreated into the RV. Absentmindedly, she looked in her knitting basket. The first thing she spotted was the splash of pink that was to be Sophia’s scarf.

Emma waited for the tears to come to her eyes, but they never did. She waited for a lump to form in her throat and her jaw to grow tight as the urge to cry overcame her, but it didn’t. Emma was numb, too numb to cry, too numb to even know what was going on.

Knowing it was the right thing to do, Emma took hold of the needles and slowly began binding off the knitting, sealing the yarn so it would never unravel. Once finished she cut the pink yarn from the skein – eerily it felt like severing an umbilical cord – and she used a darning needle to weave in the yarn.

Finished, Emma examined her work. Two inches by four inches of tiny pink stitching: small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. A small, wistful smile grew on her face as she remembered how proud Sophia had been of her knitting. Emma folded the pink swatch and placed it in her pocket. She exited the RV. The first person she saw was Andrea as she hauled geek bodies into the back of a truck.

“Andrea, do you know where Carol is?”

Andrea didn’t even look up from her work. “Last I saw Daryl was running after her.”

“Well, where’s Daryl?”

Andrea hitched a thumb over her shoulder, and Emma followed the gesture. She saw a figure sitting on a stump in the distance.

“Thanks.”

Emma trekked across the farm to reach Daryl. He had a tree branch in his hands and was hacking away at it with his knife. It looked like he was trying to shape arrows for his crossbow. Even though Daryl knew Emma was standing there, looking down at him, he didn’t acknowledge her presence.

“Have you seen Carol?” she finally asked.

Like Andrea, Daryl didn’t look up from his work. It was beginning to seem like no one could bear to look anyone in the eyes. Wordlessly, Daryl pointed his knife briefly towards a grass-covered hill, indicating Carol’s location.

“Thanks,” Emma said, with every intention of leaving, but for some reason her feet remained rooted to the spot. “How… How are you doing?”

Emma could see Daryl’s brow furrow. “Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Emma was mentally cursing the fact that she couldn’t move. Every logical cell in her brain was telling her she shouldn’t stay here any longer, but some other force kept her here. “You… You were the one who worked the hardest at finding…” Sophia. But she couldn’t say it. She tried again. “I mean, you almost died looking for…”

Daryl looked up at Emma with a look so fierce, so angry she felt her skin burn in fear. He didn’t even look this angry when we fought. “The hell you think I don’t know that? I know better than anyone else what I’ve sacrificed to find that little girl! I was the only one who put any effort into finding her. And what about you? What were you doing while she was missing? Messin’ around with—“ Daryl ended his tirade abruptly and spat on the ground. He looked away from Emma and started carving away at the arrow. “Just get out of my sight. You make me sick.”

Emma was stunned and at a complete loss for words. She hadn’t ever seen Daryl this angry. She didn’t know what to do or what to say. So, she bit on her lower lip, turned around and started walking toward the hill.

Emma was surprised by how hurt she felt. It’s like the look never happened. That look… Emma could still clearly remember the look Daryl gave her three days ago. She clearly remembered the way it seemed to pierce through her very existence, sending her mind into a confused panic. Does Daryl even remember giving me that look? Even though he was drugged up at the time? He has to… right?

Until today, Emma hadn’t talked to Daryl since he’d been shot. Daryl kept his distance from her, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. Their paths never really crossed. But ever since Daryl gave her that look, part of her had been craving an explanation.

Is that what you wanted out of Daryl just now, Em? An explanation? Maybe a confession? An apology? What did you want? Emma scoffed at herself. You’re a fool to think Daryl will ever willingly talk to you about anything.

An unexplained anger came over Emma and she kicked at a stone, sending it hurtling into the distance. Stupid Daryl!

Emma heard Carol before seeing her. She heard angry muffled cries punctuated by sharp wails of pain. Emma walked carefully through the knee-high grass.

“Carol? Carol, it’s Emma,” she said tentatively. The last thing Emma wanted to do was startle Carol. Emma found Carol sitting on the ground, her hands dirty and a pile of roses littering the ground. After a moment’s hesitation, Emma sat down beside Carol and she picked up a rose that was still intact.

“Cherokee roses,” Emma in a soft voice and with a softer smile. “My grandmother used to grow these. She had all different kinds of roses: English ladies, Damask roses, Fairy roses, and many, many more. But her favorites were the Cherokees. They were strong and resilient, requiring very little care.” Emma rubbed a petal between two of her fingers. “Most people don’t value Cherokee roses, nor do they cultivate them. The roses came from Asia, and here they are invasive, kind of like blackberry. It takes a special person to appreciate these flowers. At least, that’s what my grandmother said.”

Emma spoke softly, hoping to draw Carol into conversation. Emma wanted to somehow lessen the pain she was feeling, but she wasn’t certain whether or not she was being successful. Carol was just staring at her hands. Finally, Carol spoke.

“Daryl said these roses came from the tears of the Cherokee women as they were forced from home, that each flower represents a lost loved one.”

“That doesn’t sound like something Daryl would say.”

Carol gave a very tired shrug of her shoulders. “You never really know a person.”

No, I guess you don’t. Emma let that comment hang in the air for a while. Then she grabbed onto Carol’s hands – they felt so small and cold – and, after reaching into her pocket, placed the pink knitting in Carol’s hand.

Carol looked down at the fabric, seemingly emotionless.

“I… I thought you would want this.” Emma felt awkward, as Carol said nothing. Suddenly, Emma felt like she had over stayed her welcome. Emma stood up and walking away, leaving Carol alone. But, before Emma disappeared over the hill, she looked back one final time to see Carol hugging the small pink swatch against her chest, silent tears streaming down her face.